To Have Been Always What I Am

What Are We Doing Here, That Is The Question. And We Are Blessed In This, That We Happen To Know The Answer. Yes, In The Immense Confusion One Thing Alone Is Clear. We Are Waiting For Godot To Come

I Pause To Record That I Feel In Extraordinary Form. Delirium Perhaps.

James Joyce Was A Synthesizer, Trying To Bring In As Much As He Could. I Am An Analyzer, Trying To Leave Out As Much As I Can.

Words Are All We Have.

Imagination At Wit's End Spreads Its Sad Wings.